As we gather again for another Thanksgiving, I’d like to set up some house rules. I know I’m not the head cook anymore, but I’m still the head of the household so listen up:
No cell phones at the dinner table.
No feet (big or tiny) on my furniture.
Parenting is a full-time job. You don’t get the holiday off. Watch your kids and make sure there is some food on their plate that has color. Carrots. Green beans. Yams. Something more than just mashed potatoes. They might not eat any, but it’s never too soon to introduce them to each other. It would be easier if I was still the cook and everything had a little bacon grease to help it go down, but in this age of vegavegan-gluttenfree-halffat-lesssodium-nosugaradded, I can’t be responsible for how the food tastes anymore. Gone are the days of the three master spices: salt, pepper and bacon grease.
No jello-salad. I’m serious about this. The only thing that jiggles at my house this Thanksgiving will be your Aunt Trudy after a few glasses of wine.
I’ve lived a long life and along the way, I’ve collected a few nice things. I don’t put them away for company and I don’t put them away for family. Eventually your child needs to learn the meaning of the word No. Let’s make that happen today. We watch football in the family room on TV. We throw footballs outside on the lawn. And when you do go outside, shut the door behind you. I don’t need to air condition the whole neighborhood. And if Mr. Briggers next door tells you to stay off his lawn, tell him to stay off my last nerve. I swear, that man is the one bad bulb that ruins the whole string of lights.
If you want to talk politics sit next to me, but if you own a MAGA hat be warned. Your President is an asshat and I’m old enough to speak my mind regardless of your precious feelings. If I were you, I’d practice don’t ask, don’t tell because even when I mind my Ps and Qs, I can still spell bullshit.
If your child still wears diapers, you will leave with the same number of them as you had when you arrived. Bag them up and take them with you. The trash man doesn’t come again until next Tuesday and the last thing I need is a trash can full of baby poop. No exceptions to this rule. You’re dealing with a woman who washed cloth diapers so this would be an argument you will lose.
You know I love you. And I am indeed thankful for my family. I used to have a handle on life, but it broke. Follow the rules and we’ll all get along just fine.
No jello-salad. I mean it. Really.